Second Shot

Sean had no such prejudices. During the seven months that had passed since I’d started working full-time for his exclusive close protection agency, he’d sent me on jobs all over Europe, South Africa, Asia and the Middle East, and I hadn’t turned a hair.

Things didn’t always go smoothly, of course, and sometimes that had nothing to do with dangers from outside sources.

I’d just returned from a month in Prague as part of a four-man detail. The otherwise all-male team had started out trying to treat me as a cross between their own personal maid and private secretary. Three days in, one of them had made what turned out to be, for him, a very unfortunate remark about the sexual proclivities of the Women’s Royal Army Corps, of which I’d once been a member, and my temper had finally got the better of me. Still, they reckoned he should be out of his cast inside six weeks. His colleagues-and his forewarned replacement-had treated me with the utmost respect after that, and the job went off without further unpleasantness.

I’d proved, or so I’d thought, that I was capable of doing the job. It was just the question of where that was still causing me some qualms.

America.

There was no logic to it, but when I glanced at Sean I felt a dull anxiety almost akin to panic. I’m not ready to go back.

His face carried no expression beyond a cold determination I barely recognized. If not now, then when?

“Urn, is there some problem?” Harrington finished, as the atmosphere finally negotiated its way past the merlot that had formed a constituent part of his lunch. “If it’s a question of timing, this trip probably wouldn’t be for a month or so, if then. The investigation is still in its early stages at the moment, from what one can gather. There would be no point in Simone going out there until they’ve actually found the man, or at least until they have more information for her, would there?”

“It’s not that.” I took a deep breath. “It’s just-”

“I think you should check on Simone and Ella, Charlie-make sure they’re OK,” Sean said. He spoke quietly, calmly, but the demand for utter obedience came across loud and clear in the very softness of his voice, nevertheless. I spiked him with a short vicious glare, tempted to outright mutiny. I told myself the only reason I didn’t was because such behavior would be totally unprofessional in front of a client. Part of me even believed that as a viable excuse.

“Of course,” I murmured demurely, pushing my chair back and dumping my napkin onto the table top. Later, Sean … “If you’ll excuse me?”

Harrington didn’t treat me to the full rise, just lifted himself partly out of his seat. I saw his eyes flicker with curbed curiosity between the two of us, but he didn’t ask questions. Or not until I was out of earshot, at least.

I turned my back and stalked through the restaurant away from them, following much the same path between the tables that Simone had taken, trying not to let my anger show as badly on the outside as I felt it raging under the surface.

America.

Sean knew how I felt about working there again. We’d practically been living together for six months, so how could he not?

The last time I’d been across the Atlantic was to Florida during the previous March. My first official assignment for Sean, to a holiday destination that had turned out to be anything but.

What should have been a simple babysitting job had escalated into a disaster of major proportions. I’d ended up on the run with my teenage charge and, although I’d got through it, the cost had been a high one on every level. I was still coming to terms with what had happened there. It had taken me several months afterwards to make the decision that close protection was where my future career lay

Since then, I’d never actually asked Sean not to send me to the States and he’d never actually asked me to go back-before today I tried not to think of the people who’d died in Florida as a result of the unfolding catastrophe I’d found myself caught up in. I’d been personally responsible for three deaths-“personally” being the operative word.

Small wonder, then, that I was in no hurry to return.

Now, I pushed open the door to the ladies’ room, where a rake of low-voltage spotlights picked out the sparkle and flash in the black marble and granite that had been used to lavishly line the place.

Simone was leaning against the doorjamb of one of the cubicles, holding the door itself closed with one hand on the top of it. She had her back to the exit, but the wall opposite had a row of mirrors above the freestanding washbasins.

Our eyes met in the reflection and she smiled briefly before her eyes slid away, as though I hadn’t made enough of an impression to hold her attention for any longer.